The closer we got to the room with the chains, the more active the Old Jail’s spirits became. For an empty building, the darkened corridors were full of footsteps, the sound of chairs sliding across bare boards, clanging metal and rattling chains. Some startled us, but most were muffled, as if just making themselves heard taxed the strength of these ghosts. Disembodied voices whispered, wailed and screamed, then fell to an indistinct buzz. I was as keyed up as a hummingbird on caffeine, and I wanted to be done and out of there.
Sorren pushed open the heavy door to the chain room and we all braced for battle. Our flashlights shone into the darkness, illuminating several old, rusted chains with manacles that hung from the ceiling, props for the ghost tours. On the worn wooden floor beneath the chains was a freshly-marked circle drawn in salt and charcoal. Four burned-out candles sat melted and sooty at the quarters. Black chicken feathers littered the floor.
“We’re too late,” Sorren said. “The Watcher has made it through.”
“Uh oh.” I pointed to the chains and manacles overhead. They had begun to swing, slowly at first, and then more violently, though there was no draft in the room.
“Ouch!” Teag said as the door tried to slam shut and rammed his shoulder. Those distant voices were closer now, and their tone had changed from frightened and mournful to angry.
Shadows loomed on the walls, and dark shapes took form, stepping away from the plaster and into the room. Bits of stone from the ceiling pelted us. The temperature dropped until it was cold enough that I could see my breath. Orbs danced around the room like a cloud of fireflies, zipping toward us and emitting a nasty shock when they got too close. I ducked as one came right at my face.
Teag cried out as one of the shadows raked his arm, solid enough to tear through his sleeve. Bo’s ghost was barking loudly, running at the wraiths, snarling and snapping his teeth to keep them at bay. Heavy footfalls on the stairs and commotion in the hallway told me the Old Jail’s ghosts were massing. I blasted the wraiths with my athame, sending a cone of cold silver force against them. They parted and drew back, then rushed forward again, as if they knew my strength was limited.
The runes on Teag’s staff glowed brightly as he circled it slowly overhead, jabbing it toward any ghost that ventured too close. Each time he stabbed it into the dark figures, the staff’s runes flared and the ghosts receded as if stung. The room was far too small for him to use his urumi or for me to hurl my chakram without seriously injuring one of our companions or ourselves, though I thought the silver fire of Teag’s razor whip might give even ghosts pause.
“Let’s get out of here,” I yelped.
“You’ve got that right,” Chuck said. “Everyone get out. I’ll cover you.” We hurried out the door as Teag kept it open.
Chuck pushed to the fore. “Fire in the hole!” he shouted, tossing his EMF grenade and ducking, throwing an arm up to cover his eyes. We all did the same. There was a flash of bright light, a high-pitched squeal, and a burst of electro-magnetic energy that ghosts hated.
“Go!” Chuck shouted, pausing only to retrieve the spent shell of his grenade. We thundered down the stairs, while behind us, the ghosts swarmed in a swirling, green-gray cloud. Faces came to the fore, only to be clawed back into the mass. Skeletal arms reached out of the cloud with clawed fingers and sharp nails, ripping at our clothing and scratching our skin.
“Run!” Sorren fell back so the rest of us could escape, slashing through the ghosts with his swords, which had taken on a faint glow. Chuck took up a firing stance behind and to the right of where Sorren stood, so that nothing could get past them. He aimed his ray gun-lookalike and squeezed the trigger. Thin lightning bolts crackled from the gun’s snub nose, branching again and again until they were as wide as the corridor. The threads of lightning buzzed and snapped with electricity, and the cloud of spirits drew back abruptly.
Once the rest of us were out, Sorren and Chuck ran for the door, and Chuck paused to fire one last lightning net at the cloud of spirits as it massed to come after them again. In a few more steps they were clear, slamming the door behind them. That’s when we realized that we weren’t out of danger yet.
The broad gravel lot around the Old Jail was filled with ghosts. They crowded along the inside of the high wall, shadows and wraiths dark as storm clouds, while others were orbs, bobbing and weaving. One thing was clear: they were between us and the exit.
“I’ve got this.” Caliel stepped forward. “Buy me a couple of moments and shine your lights into my mirrors.”
We did as he told us, and the mirrors lit up, reflecting the light back toward the spirits, which kept their distance from the silvered glass that could trap them in a new and smaller prison. Caliel reached into his backpack and drew out a flask and a cigar. He opened the flask and the heady scent of spiced rum wafted on the air. A second later, he lit the cigar in his other hand.
“Stay behind me, and work your way toward the back gate,” Caliel said in a low voice. Then he began to sing and chant, dancing a slow, swaying salsa toward the ghosts. His chant matched the rhythm of his steps, and he kept his eyes on the darkness as he held up the rum and the cigar toward the night sky.
We edged our way toward the break in the high stone wall as he drew the ghosts off, step by step. This isn’t going to work. They’re wicked fast. We can’t get out of the gate before they catch us.
Orbs sparkled in the night air like snow, translucent and twinkling. In the deep shadows I could hear heavy breathing and shuffling steps. A woman’s voice rang out in a peal of high-pitched, hysterical laughter, and I guessed Lavinia Fisher was enjoying the outing.
The back lot was where the gallows once stood, and before that, nameless dead were committed to unmarked graves in the potter’s field beneath our feet. Outcast and condemned, scorned and misbegotten, the angry dead’s terror of the Reapers increased their thirst for vengeance.
We had gone as far as we could go. The ghosts did not leave the Old Jail yard exit unguarded, even while most of their number bunched around Caliel, who was still singing and swaying, waving the cigar in the air. I could trace the glow of its embers in the darkness. The ghosts dampened the normal night sounds of the city, the honk of car horns and the hum of engines, conversations and barking dogs, strains of music playing through distant open windows. The jail yard was unnaturally silent, and where the darkness blotted out the stars, orbs danced.
Caliel’s voice rose, and he took several quick steps backward toward us and the exit. Still chanting, he bent and poured out the rum in a half circle, then dropped the lit cigar to set the alcohol on fire, a fleeting buttress between us and the darkness. Caliel ripped off the black armband with the veve and cast it into the fire.
“Lord of the Cemetery and Lord of the Grave, Lord of the Dead and the Watchman of Graves, come forth!” Caliel shouted.
Smoke rose from the flames, far out of proportion to the fire. I blinked the tears out of my eyes as the wind shifted, and when my vision cleared, I saw four men standing in the fire between Caliel and the ghosts.
Caliel had called on the Ghedes, the Voudon Loas of the dead, to save us.
Baron Samedi I recognized. Tall and gaunt, dressed in a top hat and Armani tuxedo, he had the hanged man card from a tarot deck tucked in the wide purple ribbon around his hat and a pair of sunglasses missing one lens. In one gloved hand he held a black cane with a knob that looked like a human hip. The empty sockets of his skull face stared into the darkness. He was the gatekeeper to the afterlife, and a fearsome adversary.
The other three Ghedes were just as fearsome. Baron La Croix, reclaimer of souls, was a short, fat man in a tuxedo who looked as if he enjoyed the finer things in life. Baron Cimetiere was huge; in his tux he looked more like a bouncer at a nightclub, but I knew he was the protector of graveyards. The fourth man wore his fine clothing with the ease of a con man and the lethal grace of a hit man. Baron Kriminel, the hired muscle of the Ghedes.
Baron Samedi raised one hand, palm out towa
rd the ghosts and I heard a voice that echoed like it had been spoken in a crypt. I could not make out the words, but the ghosts drew back like a wave from the shore, parting behind us to clear our way. Like my companions, I ran.
We did not stop running until we reached the car, a few blocks away from the Old Jail. Sorren, who could move faster than any of us, matched our pace to avoid leaving us behind. Caliel came last, casting frequent glances over his shoulder, but the powerful Loa he had invoked had kept their bargain. I shivered, wondering about the cost. The Ghedes did not work for free, and those who called on them for deliverance needed to be ready to pay their price.
“That was not what we expected and more than we bargained for,” Sorren observed as the rest of us stopped to catch our breath. We stayed in the shadows beneath the branches of the old live oaks, unwilling to risk adding a chase from the Charleston police to our troubles.
“There’s a third Watcher, and we missed our chance to stop him,” Teag said, bending over to catch his breath, his hands on his thighs.
“How long ago was the magic worked?” I asked Caliel. “And thanks for saving us.”
Caliel gave a wide grin. “My pleasure. As for the magic, it wasn’t done in the last few days – the energy was too dispersed for that. I think Harry’s ghost told us what it could, but the dead lose their sense of time, since it means nothing on the Other Side. He told us what had happened, not what was about to occur.”
Sorren swore in Dutch. That was a sign he was tired and worried. “If Sariel is really the cause of all this, then he’s three steps ahead of us, and we can’t afford to lose,” he said. “We’ve got to figure this out – and fast – or a lot of people are going to die, and it will all be because of me.” He paused. “Let’s go talk to Mama Nadege, and see what she makes of it.”
IT’S ONE THING to have studied Charleston’s history or read about it in books. It’s something entirely different to walk the cobblestone streets and old alleyways with someone who saw those events first-hand.
Charleston is a beautiful city. It overlooks the harbor, and its streets are filled with marvelous antebellum houses, elaborate wrought iron gates and secret walled gardens. But Charleston also has a dark side. For decades, before the Civil War, it was the biggest slave market in the United States. The beautiful homes, wealthy plantations and genteel life enjoyed by wealthy Charlestonians were made possible by blood and suffering. Duels and pirates took more lives. That darkness taints a city’s energy. Much as I love Charleston, its shadowy undercurrent draws the wrong sort of supernatural crowd.
We headed into the historic district, down streets that had remained largely unchanged for hundreds of years. Tourists love the glimpse these narrow passageways provide to the city’s long-ago past. On the surface, the alleyways and side streets are picturesque. But roiling beneath the picture-perfect facade are the stone tape memories of horrors even the walls can’t forget, as well as ghosts that can’t move on, and supernatural creatures you don’t want to meet in the dark.
Sorren led us to a narrow alley that still looked much as it did in the 1700s. Chuck stayed behind to watch the entrance, giving us a nod to go ahead. Long ago, there had been ramshackle shanties for the enslaved craftsmen and house servants who had belonged to a powerful family in a big house at the end of the street. Some of those slaves brought Voudon with them from New Orleans or the Caribbean. That power still lingered, after all these years.
“Good evening.” A deep, rumbling voice with a Caribbean lilt greeted us from the shadows, and a dark-skinned man dressed in a white, loose-fitting linen outfit stepped out to greet us.
Sorren smiled. “I think that’s supposed to be my line,” he replied.
The man laughed, a rolling basso sound, and grinned widely. “Mama told me to come here tonight,” he said. “She knew you were coming. I’m Solomon, one of her helpers.” He seemed so lifelike, I could almost overlook being able to see through him when he turned away from the light.
“There’s trouble coming,” Sorren said as we followed Solomon into the shadows of the alley. The slave quarters were long gone, but as we walked the cobblestones, it didn’t take much imagination to see those shanties on either side of us, or to believe that the ghosts who once lived in them were watching us with suspicious, dark-eyed stares.
“Trouble’s already here, that’s the truth,” Solomon said. There were street lights at the entrance to the alley, and a few gas-fired coach lanterns on the walls as we ventured farther inside, but the light did not seem to be able to hold back the darkness. I shivered.
At the end of the street, a gas light cast a glowing circle, and in it stood an old African-American woman in a long, white dress. Her hair was bound up in a many-colored wrap, and on a chain around her neck, I saw a metal disk with the veve of Papa Legba.
“Welcome back, children.” The old woman’s voice was strong. Her hands had seen hard work, but her back was unbowed and fire danced in the depths of her dark eyes.
Sorren and Caliel made a little bow. Teag and I did the same. “Mama Nadege,” Sorren said, respect clear in his voice. “We are honored by your presence.”
“I told Solomon to expect you,” Mama Nadege replied. “Bad things are happening, Sorren, and they’re about to get worse. We’ve been here before, yes we have.”
“Have we?” Sorren asked intently. “That’s why I came. The Watchers are returning, and I’m almost certain Sariel is behind it, but I thought he’d been destroyed.”
Mama Nadege closed her eyes and lifted her hands to the sky, murmuring in a sing-song voice for a moment. She seemed to get the answer that she was seeking, and turned to Sorren.
“They are gathering,” she said, and the veve on the chain at her throat had a silvery glow. In the distance, I heard a dog howl, and caught a faint whiff of pipe smoke. That meant that Papa Legba was nearby, too.
“How many?” Sorren asked. “And how did they get through without our knowing?”
“Sariel has his ways,” Mama replied. “You know of three Watchers, but a fourth has arrived. Only one more, and the Harrowing will begin.”
“I thought Sariel had been destroyed. It’s been a long, long time,” Sorren replied. “Obviously, I was wrong. And if it’s really him, how can I make sure that this time, he can’t come back?”
“Sariel knows that Charleston is dear to you. Of all your places, Charleston is closest to your heart,” Mama said. “You destroyed his son. Had you forgotten? He has not.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Sorren replied gravely.
Mama nodded. “Sariel survived, and since then, he’s regained much strength. But whether he is as strong as he was before, without his son, we won’t know until we face him in battle.” She paused. “Why now? Because he has been biding his time and he has reached a point where he believes he can win.”
“I’ll need your help,” Sorren said.
Mama Nadege chuckled, a throaty, vibrant sound. “Oh, you can count on me son, and Caliel and Lucinda will help you. Sariel’s not quite ready to strike yet, but it won’t be long. Gather your team. Find his weakness. Then we must take the fight to him before he brings the last Watcher through.”
“Like last time,” Sorren said, and I saw sorrow and determination in his features.
“Aye,” Mama Nadege agreed. “There will be a cost. But there is no choice. Now go, with the blessing of the spirits,” she said, holding her outstretched hand toward us in blessing. And then, as I watched, Mama Nadege’s image faded to nothing.
“How does she do that?” Teag murmured. We both knew that Mama Nadege had been dead for more than two hundred years, but even from the afterlife, she had the power to appear real and solid, and to make an impact in the mortal world.
“So what do you think?” I asked. “Do we have a chance of beating Sariel?”
“The mortal world isn’t the true home for Sariel or his creatures, so coming across weakens them. That’s our opportunity,” Sorren added. “Striking before they
have their power at full strength.”
“Or what?” I asked, meeting Sorren’s eyes. Because of his long bond with my family, I’m one of the few, like Mama Nadege, who can look him straight in the eye with impunity.
“The last time Sariel appeared, when Josiah Winfield helped fight him, we came very close to losing,” Sorren said quietly.
I shuddered. “Then we’ll have to stop him,” I said, swallowing back my fear. “Whatever it takes.”
THE NEXT NIGHT, Teag and I met Anthony at the Historical Archive for the Angel Oak Fundraiser. I had promised Mrs. Morrissey that I would attend, and I was anxious to get another look at the exhibit, now that I had more experience with angels than I ever thought I’d get this side of the afterlife.
The old Drayton House was lit up with twinkle lights in the crepe myrtle trees on either side of the walkway and in its walled garden. There wasn’t a parking place for blocks, so I was glad we had walked from Teag and Anthony’s house. Before we even reached the door, I could hear the strains of a string quartet playing in the garden, the hum of conversation and the clinking of champagne glasses.
“I’m so glad they brought the Drayton House back to life by making it the Archive headquarters,” Anthony said. He’s on a couple of historical preservation boards, and his appreciation of old houses remains unspoiled by memories of nearly being killed by murderous ghosts. “I like what they’ve done with it.”
On one hand, I felt bad that we weren’t out hunting for Sariel. But Sorren had felt we needed a day to regroup. He had given Teag a list of items to research on the Darke Web, and said he needed to check with some of his supernatural sources before we took the next step. Sorren seemed concerned about a showdown with Sariel, and that made me downright worried. So going to a swanky event and rubbing shoulders with Charleston society was as good a distraction as any.
Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) Page 28
